


Breaking the Curse, Fighting the Darkness

by Kyon813



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ 闇の呪印 | Castlevania: Curse of Darkness
Genre: AU?, Character Growth, Gen, I don't really know..., Kind of crossover w/ Curse of Darkness, MAJOR SPOILERS for Castlevania Season 3, Possible Season 4?, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyon813/pseuds/Kyon813
Summary: A naive young pup has grown into a strong and fearsome wolf. Now he will break free of his cage...
Comments: 26
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope to God season 4 goes something like this. I'm getting sick of the parade of misery, as well written as it is, and frankly I want a little more "Castlevania" in my Castlevania adaptation. So, here we go. I have about a third to a half already written, and I'll try to update every few days or so.
> 
> EDIT: I changed the length of the next chapter, so I edited the End Notes teaser to fit.

_My name is Hector._

_This is the first, and quite possibly last, entry I shall make in this journal. I do not intend for another soul to read these words, for in the event that they do I am, in all likelihood, dead, and they are, in equal likelihood, the ones who killed me._

_I write now only for myself, to collect my thoughts, and prepare myself for the drastic, necessary action I am about to undertake, so that I may have the resolve to see it through to the end._

_Six months ago, I made a mistake. I put my trust in the wrong person, the worst person I could have trusted, and she used that against me. Since then, I have been a slave to this castle._

_Worse than a slave: A pet. A curious, pathetic human who limped into the den of monsters before one of them snapped a collar around his neck._

_They keep me in a cozy little prison outside the castle walls, locked behind a heavy wooden door. They dress me up in childish costumes like a little girl's doll. When the door opens, I am lead out of my room on a leash, toured through the grounds by that ~~fucking undead whore~~ my “mistress”, made to do my “tricks” to please the rulers of the castle, making creatures for their army of the night. When I am finished, I am led back to my prison. ~~Most nights~~ Every night my “mistress” throws herself on me when we return, calling it my “training”. If I resist, she punishes me and takes what she wants anyway. After she has finished, when she is satisfied, she leaves and locks me away again, waiting for the next day's course of “tricks” and “training”._

_For six months, this has been my every day. Any attempt to physically disobey or free myself is met with pain, brought on by the ring my “mistress” trapped me with. As long as she and her Sisters wear its brothers, I have no hope of freedom. Through me, they control my creatures, otherwise my servants, taking the weapons of a Forgemaster out of my hands. Every day, I can only watch their army grow, and endure my humiliations._

_By the first month, I was at the brink of despair. I followed their commands, obeyed their orders, but I acted as a man already dead. I knew I was trapped, and it was my fault. I was a naive, blind, childish fool, trusting monsters, the same monsters who imprisoned me, to spare me and treat me like a person. All it took was a painted face, some empty words, and a handful of treats to lure me in and become their eternal victim. Part of me knew I deserved this fate, and was prepared for a long, painful, empty life, ready to die without hope of salvation._

_But once I accepted my fate, I felt another part of me start to burn. Each passing day, as I suffered the same torments, it grew warmer, stronger, flaring up like a village bonfire. At first, it was unfamiliar, but soon I understood that it was part of me I thought I had given up long ago. Once I recognized it, I could almost hear a tiny voice, like my own, from within the bonfire, screaming out one phrase over and over:_

_“I will not die a slave...”_

_Years ago, I gave up on humanity when I learned how much they feared my gift. I saw them as ignorant, backwards, blinded and cruel and possessing no reason. But now I realize my mistake. I am no better than they, for I too have been blinded: by desperation for freedom, by loneliness, by the desire for someone to treat me like an equal for once in my life. For those reasons, I abandoned my senses, throwing myself to the mercy of monsters as other men gave themselves to the comforting embrace of fear. And like the men I never understood before, the one who fought tooth and nail against the beasts I made for Lord Dracula, I now refuse to give in to total despair, like a trapped wolf who gnaws off a limb to free itself._

_My mistake when I rejected mankind was clinging to a child's belief that humans must be flawless, free from error or lapse of judgment at all times. But to judge others only by their faults is to make yourself a victim of your own, and to ignore the virtues of others is to become ignorant of your own when you need them most._

_In short, I finally say, with muted pride, that I am human. I still acknowledge my kind's many faults, their ignorance and hatred of the unknown, but I know they have the same desire to live that has burned in me for the last five months, if not my entire life. All this time, I have worked to betray them, and I can see that I have been so wrong to do so._

_I was wrong to ever accept Dracula's plan to enslave humans, use them as livestock, before I knew he planned to exterminate them. I was wrong to believe Carmilla's lies and become a slave myself. I was wrong to let myself fall prey to Lenore's sickly sweet promises and become something lower than that. Now, though I ~~will not~~ may not survive, I must set the balance right and act to save my kind from my fate. If that becomes impossible, then I shall at least show these unholy monsters that not all men fear them._

_I cannot see the sky, but I know that night is drawing close. The castle shall awaken soon._

_It is time for the wolf to pull free of his snare._

\---------------------

Hector closed the leather-bound journal, resting his left hand on the cover. A band of twisted red and black glared up from his ring finger. Already it pulsed, throbbed around the skin; it sensed his intentions, and delivered a warning. With dull-eyed malice, he balled his fist, stood, crossed the cloyingly-decorated bedroom to its thick wooden door. Running his fingers over his handiwork on its surface, Hector pressed his forehead against the rough, heavy barricade between him and the world.

“Dear Lord,” he whispered to it, eyes closed and hands clasped before him, “I know I abandoned You years before. I know I have worked to destroy and pervert Your creations, forging them into the same creatures You cast from Paradise. I know I have sinned terrible and unforgivable sins. But if You are as kind and forgiving as men say...”

He pulled himself away, focused only on the door. “...give me the strength to begin my penance, and I shall pay back for the evil I have brought into the world.”

The ring pulsed again, harder, like a bite into his finger. He turned around, to a small worktable in the corner; a reward from Lenore, a hobby to pass the daylight hours while she and her Sisters slept. Wood chips flecked its notched surface, scattered with a few crude, rough carvings, placed to convince his “mistress” that his motives were innocent. The only tools he was allowed were a small metal chisel and a wooden mallet laying in wells carved into the edges. For his purpose, they would suffice.

As Hector crossed, he passed his wardrobe, grabbed a spare belt hanging inside the door. The ring burned now, knowing what was coming, driving streaks of fire into the flesh that coursed through his body. Shuddering, straining to focus, Hector folded the belt over on itself, placed it into his mouth. He bit into it, hard. The pressure against his teeth numbed the burning of the ring, but it only flared stronger in reply.

Hector staggered to the worktable. His left hand curled into itself, refusing the commands of his brain. He slammed it against the table; it gave way, enough to press it flat, spreading his fingers wide. Fangs of red light appeared around the ring and began to stab into him. Hector clenched his jaw into the leather strap.

His right hand clawed for the nearest tool: the chisel.

He gripped it tight. It burned in his hand from the ring's unceasing torture, but he did not let go.

_I will not die...a slave...!_

He dragged the tool over to his other hand. Every muscle felt ignited with unquenchable flames.

_I...will...!_

Hector raised it high; the pointed tip aimed at the joint between his third knuckle and the searing, accursed ring.

_I WILL NOT DIE A SLAVE!_

A muffled roar raged into his gag as he swung the chisel down, down, down...


	2. Chapter 2

Carmilla threw open the door to one of her dungeons, wrinkled her nose at the musty, sour air that crept up the passage. Mixed with it, she smelled blood and sweat, heard cries of stress and exertion, a single voice bellowing orders that echoed around the chamber, the constant rattling of metal against metal. But above the other sounds, Carmilla heard a chorus of inhuman, monstrous screeches, roars, howls. It was as if over the threshold and down the passage, the mouth of Hell gaped open, and all the unholy noises of the Pit were spilling out from its lips.

To a vampire ruler of Styria, Hell stirred no fear. Raising the hem of her dress over the filthy stone floor, Carmilla entered the dungeon.

\----------------------

The castle dungeons were filled with nightmares. Every cell in every room held back a churning sea of icy blue eyes, dozens of slavering, chomping, roaring mouths each lined with an array of teeth built to puncture armor and rip flesh. Every figment that had ever haunted the dreams of mankind had been pulled out of the unconscious, made solid, and placed in these cells. And at that moment, each nightmare was straining to get out. A wall of fur and scales and leathery skin pressed against the bars of their cages, some reaching out and swiping at anything that dared to step too close. Around the room, each cell was watched by a pair of guards in plate armor. Each guard stood ready with a silver-tipped spear, thrusting forward when a set of talons reached too far.

To Carmilla, their faces were unreadable beneath their helmets, but she sensed their fear. Although they were technically dead, vampires possessed the same chemical reactions of panic as humans: hormones and the like that induced crippling paralysis and loss of reason under extreme stress. Every guard in the room reeked of it all, and it sickened her. Seething, she scanned the room for the one person she needed to yell at.

A person who, in a crowd of average height, was very easy to find.

“Striga!” Carmilla called over the infernal din. “If I don't get an answer to why this is happening right _fucking_ now, I swear I will...!”

The wall of a woman she spoke to, hair as raven as her features were hawk-like, turned lazily from the straining creatures to her irate Sister. Her pale face was tense and haggard, marked with dark circles under her green eyes.

“Carmi,” Striga sighed, “let me remind you that I am not the one who gives answers. I give _solutions_.”

That “answer” only stoked Carmilla's temper. “And _what_ , dear _Sister_ , is the _solution_ to losing our control over most of our army?!”

“For that,” answered Striga, returning her eyes to the cells and their guards, “I need the answer first.” Before Carmilla could leap across the floor and tear into her with her nails, Striga added, “Lenore and Morana are checking the cells on this floor. I've already sent detachments ahead of them in case of...” She vaguely gestured with her massive hand. “...uncontrollable circumstances. Once we are certain this is happening to the entire horde, I can give you a solution. Until then, this,” she pointed to the guards standing by, “is all we can--”

From the far wall, there came a scream that faded quickly into a gurgle. One guard had tried their luck, stepped up to the bars to intimidate an over-reaching beast. In response, it slashed downward, splitting the guard's face and armor with three neat lines. Before she collapsed onto the stone, Striga was there, spear in hand, jabbing hard between the bars. She may not have hit the right creature, but the silver made contact, hissing and spitting into solid flesh, and something among the wall of beasts howled louder than the others. Striga jerked her weapon back, now coated in blood that sputtered on the tip like water droplets in a frying pan.

“Oh _yes_ ,” Carmilla said dryly, “a remarkable strategy, sure to keep us alive and unmutilated...”

Striga's eye twitched. “Like I _told_ you, _Sister_ ,” she grunted as she hoisted the dead guard over her shoulder and walked back to the center, “until we know more, this is _all_ we can _do_!” She shrugged, and the armor-clad body clattered at Carmilla's feet.

Her Sister squinted fiercely, roughly brushed a strand of ashen hair out of her face. “If it is _all_ you can _do_ , then at least make sure they aren't stupid enough to _bait_ and _harass_ the creatures before they all end up like that one!” She jabbed a dagger-like red fingernail at the body before her. 

“Oh?” Striga scoffed. “I am now responsible for every mistake our guards make? Then why don't you start blaming yourself when one of your _schemes_ fail? Because when they do, it's almost always because you lost control and _fucked it all up_!” Her face was inches from Carmilla, who craned her neck backwards to sneer into the eyes of the raging giant.

“My my, Sisters,” a cool voice called from the entrance, “so vicious this early in the night! I know we've all suffered from stress lately, but can we focus on the matter at hand before tearing each other to pieces?” Down the passage came Morana, dark-skinned and graceful, barely noticing the squalor surrounding her. Beside her walked Lenore, resembling a life-sized, red-haired doll, looking remarkably comfortable in the dank chamber.

Striga instantly relaxed. “Morana,” she almost sighed, relieved, “you're alri-”

“Morana,” Carmilla said abruptly, “what of the other dungeons?”

“All the same,” Morana replied. “Struggling against the bars, completely uncontrollable. Not even Lenore could make them obey.”

Striga thought among the cacophony. “To be safe,” she said slowly, “I will check in on my detachments. Meet me in the Council Room to discuss our plan.” She paused, turned to Carmilla. “Of course,” she grinned at her Sister, “I should wait for _your_ permission to give such orders, Carmilla.”

Glaring back, the lead Sister said, “Of course. We convene in the Council Room.” All four women headed to the door. As she left, Carmilla growled under her breath, “Any reason to get out of this dank shithole...”

\----------------------

Outside in the dim corridor, Striga turned to leave for the other chambers. Morana stopped her with a single hand, caressing her broad shoulder. “Whatever happens,” she spoke gently, barely audible over the crashes and roars that flooded the lower levels, “please be careful.”

Striga cupped the dark hand with her own, gave a fanged smile. “I would tear through the entire horde with nothing but my fists just to spare you from heartbreak.”

“So let us _hope_ ,” Carmilla interrupted loudly, “that it does not _come_ to that...” Under the lamplight of the corridor, she grimaced as if fighting off a tidal wave of nausea. Next to her, Lenore smirked as wide as her little face would allow. Morana pulled her hand away from Striga's shoulder, still wrapped in a gentle grip. Striga let go, and marched away to the next chamber. After she vanished around the corner, Morana joined the others.

“Very _charming_ , Sister.” Lenore chirped as they walked to the stairwell. “What a _wonderful_ scene! It nearly brought a tear to my eye.”

Morana kept her eyes ahead, her face stoic. “ _Thank you_ for your empathy, Lenore. It warms my heart to know that it reaches beyond just your beloved pet.”

“Oh, come now! You know I care for all of you, just like my sweet Hector...” Lenore began to sway in her walk, too strongly to be genuine. “He's been _so_ good lately. He listens so well, always so polite when I come for him. Did I tell you about the reward I gave him the other week?”

“Yes,” Morana said dully, “you did. Frequently.”

“A _marvelous_ little workbench,” Lenore prattled on, “he did need something else to occupy him. Oh, the little carvings he's already made! I _knew_ he'd love it!”

Morana sighed. “You pamper him too much. His creatures will turn weak if you keep spoiling him.”

“Don't worry,” Lenore straightened up, looking professional. “I let him know that rewards have a _price_. The workbench only became his after I made him test it with me.” Her painted lips curled into a proud smile. “If it can hold all of my weight and most of his, he deserves it...”

“Please...” From the front of the group, Carmilla, moments from clapping her hands over her ears, groaned back, “ _stop..._ ”

Morana quickened her pace, soon stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her nauseous Sister. “It disgusts me as well,” she said, “but it reminds me of a theory about our predicament.”

The green in Carmilla's gills faded and her pointed ears perked up at the words. “Oh? Do tell.”

“We normally have direct control over the Night Creatures, yes,” Morana replied, “but that control comes from their creator.” Her eyes flicked down to the ring on her left hand, same as her Sisters: two bands, red and black, twisted together, emitting a subtle warmth around the finger. “By design, he is incapable of resistance. But say we failed to account for something. If, by any means, he found a way to sever his bonds by his own hand...”

“Impossible,” Carmilla scoffed. “A weakling like him would be paralyzed before he could even try.”

“Certainly,” Morana continued, derision creeping into her voice, “So since we agree there is no chance that could happen, your plan is to leave the Creatures to...what? Thrash against their cages until they wear themselves out? Come back to their senses and apologize for causing us so much worry. After all, it is _impossible_ that _anything_ happened to their creator, yes? There is no use visiting his cell to check up on him, since we _know_ everything is _perfectly fine_ , yes?”

Carmilla broke her stride; she stood hunched over, fuming. Morana never made her as violently angry as Striga could, but she was clever enough to cut deeper and ring truer with her words. Unlike with Striga, Carmilla often admitted to herself that she was right.

“Damn it all,” she seethed quietly. Ignoring Morana's satisfied smile, Carmilla turned to Lenore, opened her mouth to bark an order. But the tiny redhead answered first.

“Calm yourself, Sister,” Lenore sang. “I'll handle this. Wait for me when Striga arrives...” Before they could say a word, a cloud of tiny white bats, like winged tufts of cotton, hurtled past the Sisters, curved up the stairwell, and left only the thrashing of dozens of wings and the squeaking of little animals echoing into the castle. For a moment, the two stood silent; the bats' noise quickly lost to the clatters and shrieks of every creature locked below them.

“Why did you let her go on her own?” Morana asked.

“She's more patient. As you said, pampering,” Carmilla replied soberly, quickly restoring her composure. “If I went with her, no matter what had happened, I'd repaint the room with him.” 

“And if I accompanied her?”

Carmilla grinned, hiding a hint of venom. “My Sister, I would never be so cruel to force you into that dog pen.” She started walking again. “Now, to the Council Room. I need a fucking drink...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: A fate long deserved...


	3. Chapter 3

“Hector?”

Not a sound.

“Oh Hector?”

Lenore knocked again. No one replied from the other side of the door. She pulled her wine-red scarf taut, keeping it from the frenzied hands of the North wind trying to tear it from her neck; it was not for warmth that she wore it, but to stop the heavy snowfall from settling and melting into her collar, a constant inconvenience in their realm.

The single-room dwelling, practically an old refurbished shed, sat hunched and misshapen apart from the castle, in the frozen valley below the hill crowned by stone walls. Years before Hector's arrival, it was an execution chamber, a holding cell for captives recaptured after attempting escape from the dungeons. Chained naked to the wall, wracked with hunger and gnawed by the freezing wind, many humans perished after a single night. Leaving the victims outside only made escape more pointless; beyond the castle, there were no settlements for miles. If they broke free, they would have nowhere to run.

But after Carmilla overthrew her sire and claimed the castle for herself, the drafty old wreck fell out of use; escapees were killed out of practicality, without wasting the time to make an example of them. The shed grew even colder, more decayed, barely usable as anything but an ugly pile of scrap blemishing the view from the High Tower, until the day came when Lenore announced she needed a cozy, secure little home for her new pet.

“Hector?” Lenore repeated loudly. “Are you awake?”

Nothing, again.

“There's some bother at the castle. Your creatures aren't behaving.” She smiled to herself, like a gentle mother about to scold their child. “Are you being a bad boy in there?”

The wind whirled and shrieked across the valley, but she still heard no answer. Smile curdling into a pout, Lenore stuffed a hand into her lacy gray dress, drew out a ring of assorted keys: some brass, some iron, and one plated in gold. That one she chose, inserted it into the matching keyhole. She felt the bolt *click*, and pushed the wooden slab open.

“You know I don't like it when you don't ans—”

The room was dim; the lamps installed on each wall were out, and the only light radiated from the iron stove opposite the four-poster bed that dominated the elaborate rug. Lenore needed no time for her eyes to adjust, but there was nothing to see. The bookshelves, the writing desk, the bed were all the same as they were every night, now casting deep shadows in the dancing light of the stove, recently stoked and blazing. _Like a frozen sunset_ , she thought, trying to remember the last time she had seen one.

But something else was instantly wrong. Something else was missing.

“Hector?” she called. “Where are you?”

Her pet was gone. The room seemed darker as she peered deeper into the shadows from the doorway. She heard only the crackling fire and the wind outside; her heightened senses failed to find the telltale breathing of a human. But as she leaned in, took a few nervous steps over the threshold, Lenore was distracted by a sense more potent, dizzying, almost suffocating in the tiny cabin...

Blood. Heady and raw, she smelled blood.

Its scent filled the room, faint to a human, but overpowering to a vampire. Every surface was saturated in it, as though it splattered and dripped over the walls, sprayed over and soaked into the bed linens. To her, it was not unpleasant, but it stirred unease in her gut. Vampires quickly grew accustomed to the smell of their food, but too much of it in the wrong place made anyone anxious. “Hector,” she cooed, soothing her own nerves, “no time for games. We need to make a visit to the castle. The Sisters want to see you, that's all. I'll make _sure_ they won't hurt you...”

The scent was heaviest in the far corner, opposite the door. Her sharp eyes noticed something; it lay on the worktable, soaked in that inescapable smell. Hector's chisel? Perhaps, it was a similar size. But why would it reek of blood?

Lenore stepped onto the rug, ignoring the flurries that followed her in. She only reached the middle of the room before she stopped. Eyes fixed on the worktable, she saw the object clearly.

It was not a chisel.

It was a finger.

A human finger, discolored and stiff, rested on a dark blot that rolled down the table and stained the wood. Its thickest end was ragged, torn; something had chopped it off, but not cleanly, and not quick. Just above the edge and below the knuckle, she spied a ring: red and black, twisting together, biting into the flesh.

The heavy door creaked, and it slammed shut against the frame. Lenore felt a burning over her entire body; it was like a sunbeam, not enough to kill but strong enough to drive her back. Staggering, she crumpled onto the writing desk, struggled to turn herself around. Though the burning grew stronger, she pushed herself up against the desk, and faced the door. In the glow of the stove, she saw a rough Cross carved in the wood. The holy symbol burned at her eyes; she flinched, felt beads of blood welling around them. _He set a trap_ , she thought in disbelief and rage. _That_ fucking _ingrate, he set a trap!_

“Good evening, Mistress.”

The voice floated from the shadows, measured, calm, cordial and pleasant. Lenore strained to see across the room; it came from the corner beside the door, near the Cross, and the unrelenting invisible glare nearly blinded her. Seconds passed, and she still only barely saw a silhouette: a man, tall and slender, lean like a hunting dog, ragged clothes and an over-sized jacket masking his figure.

“Yyyyou...” she flinched on every word, “wwwwhat...are yyyou... _doing?!_ ”

The man in the shadows watched her still, considering the tiny girl wrapped in countless layers of gray and red now clinging to furniture just to stay on her feet. He stepped forward.

“I wanted to thank you properly for the tools.” His voice remained completely controlled and conversational. “They proved very useful in passing the time.” He raised the outline of his left arm. As he approached, the firelight caught in his silvery hair, giving it a glow that framed his narrow, uncommonly pale face. His cloudy blue eyes stared ahead; like his voice, they showed no rage or bitterness, only an eerie look of peace, down to his soul. Then the light shined onto his arm, and Lenore saw it was coated in dry flakes of blood. His hand was upraised, and his ring finger was gone, the empty space wrapped in a bloody strip of cloth.

With the strength the Cross had not burned out of her, Lenore drilled her nails into the wooden desk. Her painted face twisted and contorted as her pet stopped in the middle of the room, still displaying his grisly work. “Yyyou...p-plllanned...th-th-thisss...?!” The words wheezed out of her throat, half from rage, half from the paralysis of that damned symbol over his shoulder.

“For months,” Hector replied, lowering his wounded hand. “I needed to make sure you believed I was your loyal little dog before I acted. Once you were content enough to grant my requests without argument, I knew I had you. And of course,” he smirked, “I needed to build my army first.”

Lenore flared like a dying fire under the bellows. “Yyyourr...?!” She growled.

“My creatures were never yours' to control. And you should be thankful by all means. I could have set them to tear the castle apart while you slept. But I knew their 'performance' would send you running here, too eager to dole out another punishment to bring someone with you...”

Burning under the Cross, Lenore seethed, cursed herself for being complacent and blind. But, she realized, that could not be her fault: with the ring on his finger, she had no reason to doubt her control. It worked perfectly; she had seen it work on him!

“Hhhhhowww...c-c-could...yyou...” she gasped, “rrring...g-gave you...p-p-pain...!”

“If it comforts you,” he said with a hint of an empty smile, “it hurt like hell.” He finished with a hollow chuckle; it bored into Lenore's ears like stabbing needles. “But I knew Hell already lay behind me, so it only helped distract from...what I had to do.” His voice turned cold and focused, and his eyes narrowed.

“B...bbbut...” Lenore hissed, trying to straighten herself more, “...impossible! No one...withstand...” Her mind clouded; if she could just break her sight of the Cross...

“You're...worthless, filthy...!”

Hector laughed again; Lenore cringed at the sound. “Is this what your kind resort to when they're powerless? Lobbing insults like a village drunkard?” He stepped closer. Lenore shrank back further. The closer he came, the more the fool blocked his own weapon. If she baited him in enough...

“What are you, without your charms and your magic and your _lies_? When you lose the powers you love to wield, what do you become?” His shoulder almost covered the Cross completely. Lenore knew her powers were useless, but a moment's respite was all she needed to strike, make a lethal blow if she was lucky. Then, someone was sure to check up on her, in time, and she would be safe. She suppressed a vicious smirk. Her naughty little pet was about to be punished...

Hector took one more step. The Cross was completely obscured, and he did not notice.

Lenore screamed, her face twisted like a rabid beast. Nails raised, she lunged for the human's throat. One slash, one tear, and it would be done.

She was too slow. Before she struck, Hector pulled open his jacket. Another Cross, painted in blood over his linen shirt, seared into her face mid-charge. Lenore threw her hands up, blocked her eyes from the pain. Totally blinded, she felt a firm hand clutch her throat.

“Children.” Hector's voice breathed in her ear. “You become angry, violent, scared little children, just like the humans you despise. Just like _me_. No wonder I thought I could trust you...”

His grip tightened. She felt herself swing to the side. He let go. She pried her eyes open, and the room flew past her at an impossible angle. She bounced onto a soft surface, and lay still. Lenore stared blankly at the canopy above her, batting the blood out of her eyes. The droplets rolled down her cheeks, dripped onto and stained the pure white sheets beneath her. She was still stunned with pain; her skin felt raw and stripped to the nerves. If her heart could beat, it would have broken through her chest by itself. She could not move, could not speak, could barely think. Lenore knew she was trapped.

The pain returned, and she started to writhe in place. From the bedspread, Lenore saw Hector at the foot of the bed. His jacket was gone; the bloody Cross on his chest almost glowed in the shadow he cast over her. Then she noticed he held something in his left hand.

“I must thank you again,” Hector said, crossing his left arm over his chest. “Your tools proved _very_ useful.” The object was traced in shadow, and Lenore could clearly see how it tapered to a single, sharp point.

Lenore writhed harder, trying to squirm off the mattress, give herself an opening to flee. She had scarcely moved when Hector climbed onto the bed, crawled along her body until their eyes met. All she could do was stare into them, and confront the humiliating irony. So many times she had offered herself to him like this, knowing he could never object. She remembered their first time, when her days of planning finally bore fruit. How innocent he looked, how willing, how trusting. Before her Sisters put him to work, she had him to herself, her lovely little plaything. Her darling little pet.

Who really was the naive one, believing her plan was flawless? Lenore thought as Hector pressed his free hand against her and she sank into the mattress. She was too weak to struggle; his Cross was too close to her. Leaking blood, her eyes followed his other hand, four digits wrapped around the wooden stake he slowly, mechanically drew up her bodice, and centered on her chest.

Hector shifted his weight. His right arm still pinned her down, but his left now held the stake by its end. Its round base fit into his palm, and he began to press it down. Lenore felt its pressure, a hard pinch. The tip worked through her layers of fabric; it just managed to poke through them all, biting into her skin. She shuddered, weakly flailed her arms, kicked her legs. Hector never moved his eyes from hers, rarely blinking, not changing the pressure holding to the bed. Deliberately, he held the stake in place for some seconds. Perhaps a minute, or several. Lenore could not tell. She was reminded of reality when Hector suddenly jabbed the stake down.

She heard the rip of fabric, felt the tip pierce and tear her flesh. It rested on her breastbone now. Her icy blood coursed between her breasts to her throat. Her mouth hung open in a voiceless scream, only letting a hoarse, bloody cough escape. Her arm grasped at Hector's shoulder. She tried to push him off, release herself from imminent death. He only pressed harder.

“What's wrong, _Mistress_?” He leaned in close, snarling the last word into her face. “You always told me you liked it _rough_.”

Hector slammed his palm against the stake. Lenore felt her breastbone crack.

He slammed again. She almost heard the crunch as it broke apart completely. Her heart was now open to him.

“Hec...tor...” Bloody eyes wide, she let out a pathetic gurgle. “Do...n...t...ki...l...l...mme...”

Hector's eyes stayed locked with hers, unfeeling. Her drove his full weight into the stake. It sank like a spade cutting into wet earth. Blood gushed from Lenore's chest. She spasmed and thrashed under him. He still pressed his hand down, down, down...

He stopped. He could not go further. Removing his bloodied hand from the stake, Hector sat up, gazed down at his handiwork.

Lenore stopped moving. Her last few drops of blood trickled away. She already felt herself breaking apart, crumbling away. Cracks were forming over her arms like an aged statue beaten by years of weather. Her mouth still gaped, her plump lips calling out her unspeakable pain. Her eyes stared up into the face she had claimed as hers months ago, now turned against her. 

What would he say now? Some curse? An insult held back all this time, unleashed in spiteful rage? A verse of Scripture, perhaps, condemning her to the depths of suffering and punishment?

As she thought, Hector leaned over her once more. Before her dying brain could react, he...

...cupped her face with his bloody hand, smearing her makeup with a messy spatter of red. His eyes bored into her still, cold and empty as the valley outside. They remained in that pose, silent. For how long, Lenore could not tell. Long enough for her body to begin falling apart, becoming only thick gray dust. Then, as she finally faded, she heard him whisper:

“ _Good girl_.”

At the end of her immortal life, one of manipulation and control, those were the last words she would ever hear. 

It was her final humiliation. 

The start of his revenge.

\----------------------

On a far hilltop, keen eyes under a dark hood were fixed on the castle. How long had they been there? As long as the castle had stood...or perhaps they saw it now for the first time. For the watcher, it was difficult to tell.

He felt no cold, and his long robe draped flat over the snow, undisturbed by the wind; he looked like a shadow freed from its owner, a long patch of darkness against grey stones and plain white, able to blend in anywhere, appear at anytime, but belong nowhere.

The watcher heard the air sing, call to him; a message, an alert. Under his hood, his eyes flicked off of the castle, slanted down to a tiny speck inside its walls. The song in the air grew louder. He knew its message immediately: blood had been spilled here. The song began to fade, reducing to an echo between the driving flakes. It cried, "blood has been spilled, but the one who bleeds is not your concern". The song faded, faded...and was silent. Still the watcher did not move. He watched the speck, waiting...

...waiting for a dot of light to appear, and a smaller shape came out of it. The keen eyes recognized the shape: a human, one familiar to him. A Forgemaster, as well. The light vanished, and against the field of white, the human shape left the speck, began a slow path up to the inner wall. Up to the castle.

The watcher's eyes returned to the stone crown on the hill. It echoed with the same empty song as the speck. So much blood, so much death had already flooded the entire structure, and he could not leave his spot on the hill.

Not before the right one arrived.

Not before the castle became a tomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I thought of a new plot point...so I added that. Sorry.
> 
> Next Time: An intruder at the castle, and the beginning of the end...


End file.
